


Wall of Shadow, Draw Back

by majestic_shriek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_shriek/pseuds/majestic_shriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locked up in prison again, Sam is still plagued by visions of Lucifer, and Dean can’t find a single shred of hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall of Shadow, Draw Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonofabiscuit77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/gifts).



> Written for the LJ spn_j2_xmas exchange as a pinch hit for sonofabiscuit77. I’m so sorry this is as late as it is! I’ve tried to work in a few of your likes around your general prompt of prison fic within canon, although I don’t know how many wonderful prison!fic stereotypes I’ve managed! Likes wise, I tried to get first time relationship (sort of...), possessive boys, rough/claiming sex, lots of kissing and prison fic into this. I hope you like it! Merry late Christmas, and happy new year!
> 
> Thank you to the mods for being so wonderful and so tolerant of my procrastinating delays!
> 
> Thanks also to akadougal for hashing out some of the initial structure of this with me, and generally being an awesome cheerleader throughout.
> 
> Title from the poem “A Song of Despair” ( _Una Canción Desesperada_ ), by Pablo Neruda.

Sam lets go of the breath he’s holding, and lets himself fall.

The world spins around him as he tumbles, over and over. It’s far too familiar. The rush of air in his ears, that sensation...but it can’t be the same; it can’t be happening again. That’s all over now, done and in the past, and there shouldn’t be any falling, shouldn’t be any blackness, shouldn’t be Lucifer, Sam is sure, waiting somewhere at the bottom for him.

Waiting somewhere. Sam waits for the ground to hit, for the pain to begin. The rush of the fall has stolen his breath away, he can’t breathe, the air too fast and his lungs too tight to even begin to function normally. He twists, struggles, tries to persuade his body to gasp in something, anything.

There’s a touch on his arm, and just like that he’s breathing again, harsh rasps of breath through a throat that feels scratchy and raw. He forces his eyes open, blinks once, twice, and there’s Dean, his face pressed close to Sam’s and he’s whispering urgently, “stay with me, Sammy, c’mon Sam, this is real, not whatever else you’re seeing, this is me touching your arm, Sam, this is real, c’mon.”

Sam closes his eyes again. He can hardly bear to look into Dean’s eyes; they are so like Lucifer’s when there is no way of telling, when Lucifer plays his tricks and wears Dean’s face. There is, somewhere, somehow, a difference, though. There’s something in Dean’s eyes that doesn’t appear in Lucifer’s, even when Lucifer was...and is trying his hardest to convince Sam that his brother is in front of him. Sam clenches his jaw, blinks again and folds one hand over Dean’s, which still rests on his arm, and tries to breathe calmly. Lucifer’s standing there: he’s turned up after all, smirking as he shakes his head softly. Sam shuts his eyes once more, ignoring Dean, the way his brother, what looks like his brother, what _is_ his brother shakes his arm, then again, rougher. Sam takes his hand, and jabs it into the scar on the opposite. Its nearly healed now, but Sam keeps worrying it, and it’s never going to lie perfectly flat, sealed like it would have done if he had wrapped it neatly in a bandage and regularly applied antiseptic, or whatever. Sam knows its still there, and Dean knows too, and neither of them says anything. They just know. Amongst all the shit that’s crashing down in the world around them, current predicament included, there’s really no need to vocalise what doesn’t have to be said.

“Sam,” Dean tries again, shaking Sam’s shoulder again, and Sam hears himself whimper ever so slightly. He can imagine the pained look flitting across Dean’s face right now, doesn’t need to open his eyes to see it. “Sammy, c’mon.” His voice is getting more panicked now, as much as Dean would ever allow that to happen. Sam knows he needs to pull it together. This really isn’t the time or place to become an incoherent wreck on the floor.

The floor is cold, hard: tiled, Sam decides, as he begins to register more of what’s real around of him and what’s not. Lucifer never really went in for tiling. He liked hardwoods and thick carpets. This floor is tiled, ceramic coldness beginning to seep into his back through his thin layers. Bathroom, they must be in the bathroom. Sam is at once relieved and grateful; Dean must have managed to get them both in here whenever this episode was triggered - and Sam finds he can’t even begin to pinpoint what it was this time, sometimes it’s something so small and seemingly inconsequential that it seems inconceivable that it would trigger a reaction like this. Sam has given up trying to find rhyme or reason for the times Lucifer decides he wants to play, concentrating instead on trying to control his reactions. It doesn’t always work, present situation blatant evidence of this.

“Dean,” he manages, shifting his grip to Dean’s wrist, fingers tightening harder than is probably necessary, but Dean doesn’t even wince.

“I’m here, Sam, it’s me.” He stays perfectly still, lets Sam do what he needs to do. They’ve developed a sort of routine for this now, a routine they don’t mention, a routine that isn’t spoken about, but it works. Sam is grounded again, Lucifer usually flickers and fades (and if he doesn’t, well, Sam usually chooses to try and ignore that fact, and most certainly doesn’t tell Dean.)

Sam uses his free hand to push himself up from the floor, propping himself on his elbow. Dean follows him, his left hand a supporting weight drifting down to the middle of Sam’s shoulder as he eases up. Sam smiles, or tries to. He wants to reassure Dean that it’s okay now; he can let go if he wants to. Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t push him to.

There’s a moment, entirely too short, of silence, the two of them just sitting there on the empty prison bathroom floor. There’s no one else in there, and Sam thanks...well, thanks something for small mercies, thankful it’s just the two of them huddled there in the greying light. It’s bleak in there, but no bleaker than some less restrictive places either of them has ever stayed. The fact that they’ve ended up behind bars again, hauled in by some cops who recognised them on some charge that was quite obviously perpetuated by their Leviathan doubles and refused to listen to any type of reason. Sam still wasn’t really sure what sort of reason appealed to a couple of small town cops who had just seen the chance to ship some pretty major criminals up to county, and so they were stuck here until...until they figured a way out, the Leviathans figured a way in, or something miraculous happened regarding the law.

This time it’s Sam who breaks the silence. It’s usually Sam these days, rushing to reassure Dean that he’s fine, that Dean can stop worrying: all points he knows Dean is both not going to believe one word of and will also ignore completely. “He’s gone,” he points out softly, lessening his grip on Dean’s wrist. Lucifer cocks his head and smiles, raising an eyebrow. Sam ignores him.

“You sure?” questions Dean, looking around them dubiously, as if he’s going to see Lucifer stepping from the shadows, this time out of the tens of...Sam’s lost count of how many times now. More than Dean knows about, that’s for sure.

Sam nods, “I’m sure.”

 _”I think he knows you’re lying,”_ , interjects Lucifer, conversationally. He’s leaning up against one of the stalls now, picking at something between his teeth.

Sam ignores him, concentrating instead on the pressure of Dean’s hand against his back, the feel of Dean’s (warm) skin against his fingers. The other Dean’s were warm, but not like this. Not this comforting warmth that Dean exudes, and Sam feels himself curling into it again before he can help himself, curling into Dean’s shoulder and pressing his forehead against the solid bulk of his brother. He knows Dean doesn’t usually stand for moments like these, but now, in the moments that don’t exist, that they never speak of, Sam can allow himself to pull closer to his real live, flesh and blood brother, warm and breathing beside him. He inhales, pulling in that unmistakable scent of _Dean_ , cold steel and oil, leather, and that godawful soap they give them in the showers.

Dean smells fresh, and Sam doesn’t really want to know. There has to be a reason for how they’ve managed to stay undisturbed in this bathroom all this time; Sam’s general experience of his fellow inmates hasn’t exactly painted them as the patient and understanding type. Dean’s called in some sort of favour, Sam knows it, even as he doesn’t even want to acknowledge it. Dean, always sacrificing something for him. Sam doesn’t know what it is this time, though he has a pretty good idea.

“You good to go?” Dean is asking, muffled into Sam’s hair. He’s not pushing, he makes no move to push Sam away from where Sam has nestled himself, but Sam knows this can’t last forever. They’re going to have to move at some point, and face the day. Face the music. Carry on somehow. Until the next time.

Sam nods into Dean’s neck, and pulls away. Lucifer’s still standing there, hasn’t made his exit while Sam has been losing himself in the reality of his brother, following him with bored eyes. “I’m good,” he confirms, easing himself up off the floor and away from Dean with wobbly limbs. Dean hovers, but he doesn’t touch, not once Sam has moved away. Sam misses the pressure of Dean against him, but he doesn’t move back towards his brother either. Moments done, moments over, time to move on.

“ _”You could just tell him,”_ , Lucifer comments, lazily, and Sam has to fight to school his features into a blank look and not shoot back a denial. _”I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like he’s going to be disgusted and never want to see you again, let alone talk to you -- oh, wait...”_ Sam steadfastly ignores him, and turns his back towards the door, barely noting how Lucifer’s already there, leaning against the door jam.

Dean exits before him, and if Sam didn’t have his eyes so firmly fixed on the back of his brother, fingers pressed into the scar again, he would have missed the almost imperceptible nod Dean gives to a great lulking specimin, who’s sat over on the benches in the hall. Sam doesn’t even know who it is, doesn’t think he’s actually ever seen Dean speaking to this person either, but the lump nods back with a leer and an obscene hand gesture that all at once fills Sam with bile and protectiveness and worry. Dean doesn’t react, but Sam sees the way his fist tightens in his pocket and the faint redness that appears on his cheeks. That’s how. That’s how they’ve got any leverage around here.

 _”Finally worked it out, Sam?”_ , Luficer whispers in his ear. _”Big brother selling himself to look out you. It’s almost sweet, really. Not really what you’d call romantic, though. I could tell you what he does, you know. The look on your face would be wonderful -- not that you can really comment, bunk-buddy, eh?”_

Sam’s glad Dean’s not looking this way, can’t see the narrowing of his eyes, or the look on his face. _”It’s been going on a while now,”_ , continues Luficer conversationally, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shudders, he can’t help it. _”Mostly in the showers -- oh, but you don’t look like you want the details, I can see. Well, I just want yourr happiness, Sam.”_

Sam clenches his fists, digs his fingers deeper into his scar. Lucifer barks a laugh into his ear. _”That’s not going to work for much longer, oh buddy mine. Soon, I’m going to be here all the time. Better get used to it, hmm?”_

“You sure you’re good?” Dean’s turned back, looking at him askance, and Sam nods briskly, following on faster.

They’re back at Dean’s cell quickly: it’s closest, and Dean can usually manage to persuade his cellmate to be somewhere else whenever they have this open time, so that Sam and Dean can spend the leisure hours together. It’s worse when they’re apart, so Sam eats up every moment of time that he can be beside Dean, takes it and holds it close for later when he’s going to be alone in his bunk with only Lucifer for company and his unforgiving cellmate who yells at him whenever he makes the slightest whimper, or shoves him whenever he shifts and screams in his sleep. Dean’s told him that he’s tried to get them moved to a cell together, but the warden just laughed and none of Dean’s influence or powers of persuasion, or other leverage that he’s managed to gain in the joint could convince him otherwise. So Sam’s stuck dealing alone, and covering up how bad it is whenever Dean asks. It’s nightmares, he says, just nightmares. I can deal with the nightmares, he assures Dean, and Dean looks away like he doesn’t believe Sam, not entirely, and Sam feels bad for lying to his brother, but it’s better than telling him the whole truth.

They’re in the small room almost before Sam realises, Lucifer hopping up onto the top bunk, legs dangling. It’s almost childlike. Dean sits down heavily on the lower bed, and puts his head in his hands. He looks exhausted. Sam stands there, kind of awkwardly. There’s some time yet, before he’s due to go back to his cell, but he doesn’t know what they’re supposed to do now. He moves towards the small cabinet that houses some of the things they’re allowed to have, meaning to retrieve the papers planning how they might manage to get out of here. It’s difficult with no contacts on the outside, but Sam refuses to let the small kernel of hope die. Lucifer always laughs at him for that too. Dean always says nothing.

“It’s happening more often,” Dean says, quietly. It’s almost a whisper, almost like he doesn’t want to say it at all.

It’s not, Sam wants to say, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He stays silent, but pauses, frozen in his journey towards the cabinet.

“Being in here...This isn’t working.”

Sam sighs. “You mean it’s making me worse,” he offers.

“Isn’t it?” Dean shoots back, and Sam turns round to face his brother. Dean’s staring daggers at him now, and Sam sighs again.

“It’s not ideal,” he admits, “but I’m dealing with it.” Lucifer kicks his feet across Dean’s shoulders. Sam closes his eyes.

“Right,” says Dean, and he doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s gonna get harder to find places in here where you can be. And if this happens when I’m not there ---” He tails off, looks down at the floor.

“It hasn’t yet.”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes. He doesn’t need to say it. It might. It will. And if Dean isn’t there...Sam waits, expecting Dean to say something more, but his brother is silent, weary resignation writ all over his face.

“We’ll work something out,” Sam tries, and Dean snorts softly.

“I’m doing what I can,” he says, quietly, and Sam takes a step towards him, sits down on the thin mattress beside him.

“You shouldn’t,” Sam says, just as quietly. They’re entering dangerous territory now, talking about things outside of his ‘moments,’ but somehow, tentatively, this feels right. Dean shrugs, and Sam inches closer, gently places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, ready to remove it at the slightest hint that it might not be welcome. Dean hardly reacts, which might be a good thing, Sam isn’t really sure. Dean can be hard to read these days, lost in himself and drowning himself in whatever he can get his hands on. It’s more difficult in here, there’s not as much access to Dean’s vices, although Sam has smelt the ethanol tang on Dean a few times, so he must have acquired it from somewhere.

“It’s fine,” shrugs Dean. “Just how things are, Sam.”

“You shouldn’t,” Sam repeats, and his grip tightens on Dean’s shoulder. “You don’t need to -- you know -- do any of that stuff.”

Dean’s eyes harden, and he turns on Sam, wrenching away from his hold. “What the fuck do you know about it?” he bites out. “Maybe I wanna do it, you think of that, Sam? Maybe I wanna get felt up in the showers, get roughed up by guys like Goodge out there. Maybe I like it,” he hisses, “Maybe I want it.”

Sam doesn’t know how to respond. Lucifer is being no help, leaning over the edge of the bunk with a fake scandalised look on his face, and Sam doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. So he does the first thing that comes to mind without thinking. He shoots out his arm and pulls Dean in towards him. Dean stumbles, caught off balance by Sam’s sudden movement, but he recovers quickly, and tries to yank himself away, but Sam holds on tightly, and stares Dean down.

“No,” he states, simply.

“No?” Dean spits back. “No? S’not your choice, Sam, not your decision to make. It helps us out, helps you out. That’s all that matters, till we get out of here. If we get out of here.”

“It is my decision,” insists Sam, “and we _are_ getting out of here. In one piece, both of us.” Dean snorts again, and tries to pull away again, but Sam only pulls him in tighter until their faces are mere inches apart. “Yes, Dean, both of us. I’m holding it together --” he ignores Lucifer’s eye roll, “and you’ve got to as well. And that doesn’t mean throwing your whole being at whatever will take it and hoping you’re going to break.” He stops, breathes in, staring Dean down, unblinking. “I won’t let you.”

“Don’t have a choice,” mutters Dean again, almost petulantly, but he doesn’t look away.

“Do,” Sam replies, and before he can stop himself he’s leaning forward, closing the short distance between them and pressing his lips up against his brother’s. Dean’s frozen, and Sam licks up against the curve of Dean’s lips, presses their mouths closer together, willing Dean to part his lips, to let Sam in, let him explore. Dean’s lips taste just like Sam’s imagined they’ll taste; just like they did taste when there was not-Dean there in front of him and nowhere else to seek comfort other than in the arms of his not-brother, but these, the lips of his real, flesh and blood brother, they’re sweeter, better, and Sam doesn’t want to stop, but there’s no response from Dean, and Sam draws back, and looks down at the floor, anywhere but at Dean, anywhere but at Lucifer.

There’s silence, no one saying a word. Even Lucifer has fallen silent. Maybe he’s enjoying the drama of the situation, thinks Sam, it must be like a soap opera for him, ending on the cliffhanger, waiting for the next episode to see the dramatic conclusion. Sam’s prepared to leave, he can go back to his cell, get away from this, but Dean hasn’t moved away. Sam drops his hold on Dean’s arm, makes to go, avoiding making eye contact.

Dean stops him, places a hand on his forearm, and Sam dares to look back up at his brother. Dean’s face is carefully blank, and Sam feels his heart sink. There’s nothing there, Dean’s just going to coldly and calmly tell him to get out, and he’ll leave and go and be alone with Lucifer, and he really doesn’t know what will happen if Dean doesn’t let him stay.

“Will it help?” Dean asks, slowly. Sam stares at him, uncomprehending. “Will it help?” Dean repeats. “You, will it help you?”

“That’s -- that’s not the point,” replies Sam, slowly. “I mean, I think so, yes, but --”

Dean cuts him off, “Fine, good,” and leans back in towards Sam, but Sam shakes his head, and pulls backwards.

“Dean,” he says, “do you want this?”

Dean hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, Sammy, yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You started this, Sam, I’ve said it’s fine. It’ll help you. I mean, it helps when I’m close, when you have the episodes, doesn’t it? So, if this is what you need, yeah, fine.”

“I don’t -- Dean,” Sam finds himself struggling to find the words he’s searching for. “I want this. I’ve wanted it for a long time now. You, I mean. And yeah, I guess -- yeah, I need it. But I need you, more than anything, and Dean, I need you to be you, and -- Dean, I want this to happen, but it needs to be for you, too.”

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, pressing the palm of his spare hand into his forehead.

“Because I don’t like what you’re doing with those other guys. If you’re going to be doing anything like that, it should be with me, or no-one in here, if you don’t want me, and if that means things are more difficult, I don’t care. We’ll get through, we always do, but Dean, I don’t like it. It’s not good for you.”

Dean snorts again. “Hark at you, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam says, beginning to feel a hint of exasperation setting in.

“Fine,” says Dean, and Sam lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Fine,” he says again, and leans in and presses his lips against Sam’s.

Sam is taken by surprise at first, but he recovers quickly, parting his lips against Dean’s, letting Dean’s tongue slip into his mouth as he slides his along side, relishing the sensations, the taste, everything, so much Dean. He pulls Dean closer, deepening the kiss, closing his eyes as he relaxes against his brother’s side.

 _”Is it real this time?_ , Lucifer cuts in, and Sam pointedly doesn’t open his eyes to look at where he knows Lucifer is hanging down over the lip of the top bunk, watching the two of them. _”I mean, are you sure, Sam?_

Shut up, thinks Sam, shut up. This is real. This is Dean, this is Dean’s mouth, these are Dean’s lips, this is Dean, all Dean, all my brother, all mine. I know it. I can feel it. This is real.

He can feel rather than see Lucifer’s smile, but Lucifer stays blessedly silent. He’s there, watching, unmoving, and Sam wishes he’d go, stop staring, but he’s not going anywhere, stubbornly refusing to fade away. Dean is licking into his mouth, and Sam focuses on this, focuses on the sensation of Dean all around him.

Sam pulls back, peppering kisses to Dean’s jaw, the curve of his neck, back to his lips, small, almost delicate kisses, and Dean draws a hand round to the back of Sam’s head, pulling him back to his lips for a deeper kiss, and Sam kisses back until he can hardly breathe, everything gone in Dean.

“Dean,” he gasps, “want more.” He can feel his dick hardening in his pants, thankful for once that they’re in the loose fitting jumpsuits, not his more restrictive jeans, even though, fuck, he’d love Dean to palm him through the denim, feel the friction up against his cock.Dean nods and  
shifts, allowing Sam to crowd in even closer to Dean and push Dean back against the thin greying blanket on the bed.

Sam wastes no time in kissing Dean again, in pressing his whole body up against Dean’s now prostrate form, encouraging Dean to swing his legs up onto the bed, where he edges Dean’s knees apart with his own knee, parting Dean’s thigh so his knee can can purchase there, can press against the thick shape of Dean’s cock, which is already hard, jutting against Sam’s knee. Sam growls softly, and pushes his knee into Dean’s crotch. “Already hard for me,” he whispers against Dean’s lips, “already hard, ready and waiting for your brother.” Dean nods and whimpers at the pressure of Sam rubbing against him. “Gonna fuck you, Dean,” Sam continues, moving to nibble little kisses along the line of Dean’s jaw, “gonna fuck you so you can only think about me, my name. Gonna fuck you so that you know you’re mine, no one else’s. Fuck you so that you remember that. You’re mine.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, angling his head up to lick at Sam’s neck, and he brings his hands round to cup Sam’s ass, pulling Sam closer towards him, increasing the pressure against his cock. Sam works his fingers into the zip of Dean’s jumpsuit, working it down lower.

“Want you naked. Want to see all of you,” he states, following the trail of the zip with his tongue. “Get this off.”

“Bossy,” Dean says, but he moves to bring his legs up, lifting his ass to pull the orange material down and off his body, his cock springing up proud and hard.

“Mmm,” replies Sam, and he kisses down again, kisses the expanse of chest now visible to him. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

“Gotta, unf,” Dean grunts as Sam bites down on one of his nipples, “gotta be ready.”

Sam growls. “Only ready for me from now on, Dean, only for me.”

“Yeah, Sam, Sammy, yeah, just you,” Dean gasps, as Sam licks round his other nipple, licking and sucking and nipping at the tender flesh.

 _”Not bad,”_. Sam shuts his eyes again. _“He’s a compliant little thing when he wants to be, isn’t it? Good kisser too, I bet. Does he taste nice, Sam? Does he taste like you imagined?”_

“Taste so good,” Sam murmurs, licking a trail around Dean’s nipple, stealing another kiss from his lips. Dean bucks his hips up into Sam’s body again, and Sam smiles, and pushes his hips down again. “Wait.”

“You really are bossy,” gasps Dean, “and far too clothed. C’mon, Sam, get with the program.”

 _”You should listen to your brother.”_

“Shut up,” Sam growls, and Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Sam claims it again with his own, kissing all the fight and talk that he can out of his brother, willing Lucifer to go away, to leave, to stop, to just...stop. The more he fills his senses with Dean, the more he can ignore the devil on his shoulder. He _is_ entirely too clothed, this is true, and he pulls the zip down hurriedly, shucking the fabric off his shoulders, kicking it off his ankles as fast as he can without moving too far away from Dean.

The naked slide of their cocks against each other is almost too much for Sam to take, and from the way Dean’s breath speeds up, Sam guesses that Dean’s feeling something similar. It’s a hot, rough slide, just the friction of their cocks as Dean reclaims his grip on Sam’s ass and pushes them closer together and Sam slips up and down Dean’s torso, licking, nipping, kissing. “Want you,” Sam hisses again, and brings his hand between them to grasp Dean’s cock between his fingers. Dean grunts, and Sam curls his fingers up and round, pumping down on Dean’s length, watching the way Dean’s eyes begins to roll back in his head. Sam slicks his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock, smearing the precome that’s gathered on the tip, sliding it round the sensitive tip, slipping down the shaft again, glad of the slightly increased lubrication. Dean moans beneath him, cants his hips up into Sam’s grip, and he wants this, Sam can tell, he wants these sensations, wants the hand grabbing his cock, pulling him closer and closer to release.

Sam shifts, positions himself better so that his own cock can rub roughly against Dean’s body while he continues to work Dean with his fingers. Dean is moaning still, and Sam leans, claims the sound with his mouth, licks the moans from inside Dean’s mouth. Dean’s face is flushed, and fuck, he’s gorgeous like this, all laid out underneath Sam, letting Sam take what he wants from his brother, and Sam can almost forget everything: forget where they are, forget Lucifer watching this whole thing with that look in his face, forget that someone could walk in at any moment, forget everything that’s happening with them, forget all the shit in their world. He could forget it all with Dean beneath him like this, spread out and wanting, moaning for more into Sam’s mouth, hands pushing Sam down onto him as he thrusts up into Sam’s grip.

He’s close, Sam can tell, the way Dean’s eyes start going further away, the moans become more breathless, and he lowers his mouth, licks and sucks at Dean’s nipples, biting down, and like that, Dean comes, hard and fast, with a guttural sound, spilling all over Sam’s hand, all through his fingers. Sam smiles; Dean’s got his eyes shut now, pleasure ripped out of him, but Sam’s not done yet. He brings his fingers up to his mouth, licks delicately, tasting the salty tang of his brother’s come. He kisses down onto Dean’s lips again, and Dean’s eyelids flutter open, looking a little lost and confused. Sam kisses again, and Dean moans again, licking his own taste out of Sam’s mouth. “God, Sam, you’re killing me,” he mutters, as Sam licks down his fingers again, drawing his hand through the white sticky mess between them.

“You like that?” Sam asks, trailing his hand down again, round behind Dean’s cock, fingertips playing lightly at the rim of Dean’s hole.

“Oh, fuck yes,” says Dean, shifting his hips. “Need you inside me, Sam. Want it.” Sam growls again, dips the tip of his finger inside Dean, noting how Dean opens for him, how Dean writhes on just that touch. Sam’s achingly hard now, the friction he claimed earlier having done nothing but increase the desire within him and he wants nothing more than to thrust himself deep inside Dean, thrust inside and claim him for his own. Dean is his and he is Sam’s, and no one is allowed a part of that. Sam knows, somewhere inside, that he’s always wanted Dean; the admiration and closeness they had growing up morphing into something Sam never understood, never got until Lucifer showed him the way, showed him what he could be doing, and now he’s got the real thing underneath him and he’s never letting it go. He’s never losing this, never losing Dean.

 _”He looks good like that,”_ comments Lucifer, lazily, tapping out a soft rhythm on the frame of the bed. _”He’s going to look completely fucked out soon, and we both know how gorgeous he get when he’s like that,”_.

“Shut up,” Sam bites out again, fingers still massaging Dean’s hole. Dean looks at him, and Sam thinks he must know, can’t not know, but Dean doesn’t say anything, just slips and babbles “Yeah, Sammy, right there. Gonna fuck me, Sam? Fill me up?”

“Yeah,” Sam manages, shutting his eyes and willing Lucifer away, but it doesn’t work; he’s still there when Sam looks up again. Sam raises his fingers to his mouth, spits, and stares directly at Lucifer as he works his fingers back down to Dean’s hole again, mixture of spit, Dean’s come, Sam’s precome, and he slips one long finger inside, working at Dean’s entrance. Lucifer stares right back, and Sam hopes that Dean’s not looking right now, that he’s too busy concentrating on Sam’s touch. Sam works another finger inside Dean, tight and hot, and it’s hardly enough with his spit soaked fingers, but they haven’t got anything else, so this will have to do. Dean moans beneath him, a litany of oh, fuck, there, fuck, as Sam crooks his fingers up inside Dean, hits his prostate, and Dean jumps, cries out and Sam presses against the spot again, holds his brothers shoulders down with his other hand, tears his eyes away from Lucifer to look at Dean’s face, etched in ecstacy, eyes closed as he bucks against Sam.

“Feel so fucking good, Dean,” Sam murmurs, close to Dean’s ear, licking a stripe down Dean’s throat. “So tight for me, gonna fuck you just like this.”

“Fuck, yes,” replies Sam, and he licks and kisses at Sam’s flesh wherever he can reach. Sam arches into these touches, the touch of Dean against him, Dean, all and everything. There’s never enough Dean, even this isn’t enough. He has to be inside Dean, he can’t wait any longer. He knows, probably that he should fuck Dean open on his fingers some more, but he needs to feel Dean closer, needs to feel Dean’s tight heat surrounding him, and he thinks he’s going to burst if he doesn’t fuck Dean now.

He pulls his fingers out, and Dean moans at the loss of contact, pushes up trying to take Sam back in, but Sam presses him down, hold his hips as he manoeuvres Dean’s legs up, letting Dean kick off the final restriction of his jumpsuit around his ankles. Sam pushes Dean’s thighs apart as far as he’s able, moves his head down to kiss at the soft skin of Dean’s inner thigh. “Sam,” Dean whines, and Sam grins against Dean’s skin.

Sam’s hard, so hard, his cock leaking precome, and Sam slicks the fluid over and down, letting out a whimper at the touch. Fuck he needs to be inside Dean so badly. He’s not slick enough, not really, but he spits again, slides that over, and it’ll have to be enough. He lines himself up, presses the head of his cock to the rim of Dean’s hole, one hand guiding himself, the other holding Dean’s thighs open. “Gonna fuck you,” he says, unnecessarily, letting his cock rest there, readying himself.

“Get the fuck on with it then,” hisses Dean, and he tries to push back onto Sam’s cock, but Sam’s got control of them, and he holds Dean back. “Fuck, Sam,” Dean says, and he’s getting hard again, cock bobbing against his stomach. Sam gives in, he can’t hold himself back any longer, and he pushes the head of his cock in, just an inch or so, and pauses. Dean bucks, wants more, Sam can tell, but just this, the hot pressure around him, it’s almost too much, and Sam takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself. Dean’s getting impatient, God, he wants this so much, wants to be full of Sam’s cock, and Sam presses a kiss to whatever skin he can find, takes another deep breath, and buries himself right to the hilt.

Dean moans, cries out, babbles fuck fuck fuck over and over, and his hips jerk up, again when Sam manages to find enough coherence to reach around with his spare hand and grip Dean’s rapidly hardening cock. One of Dean’s hands moves around and joins his, the two of them working up and down Dean’s cock in tandem as Sam recovers himself, as Dean adjusts to the thick fullness of Sam inside him. “Fuck, you’re big, Sam,” he says, eventually, and Sam huffs out a laugh, twists his hips in experimentation.

“Fuck,” he exhales, “oh, God, fuck, Dean, feel so fucking good,” and he twists his hips again, trying to find the right angle. He pulls out slightly, thrusts back in, relishing Dean writhing beneath him, and there, he must have gotten the angle right, because Dean is gone, one hand twisting on his own cock, the other encouraging Sam to fuck him harder, faster, a constant pressure on Sam’s own ass, and Dean’s head is flung back against the mattress. He looks the very picture of wanton abandon, and Sam intertwines their fingers around Dean’s cock, pistons that in time with his own thrusts into Dean’s ass, and fuck, he’s not going to last long like this.

 _”Is he as good as you remember?”_ Lucifer’s moved now, he’s sat on the very edge of the bed beside them and Sam moans. He should stop, but he can’t, can’t stop his rough movements in and out of Dean. “Fuck you,” he grits out.

“Thought -- it was -- the other way round,” manages Dean, and Sam looks down at him, not quite understanding what Dean’s saying before realising he must have answered out loud, but he just fucks in harder, his thrusts becoming more erratic, and he can hardly keep his grip on Dean’s cock now, but their fingers linked together keep him moving there too.

“M’close,” he stutters out, and Dean nods, and somehow, he opens his legs further and takes Sam deeper, and it’s all Sam can take and he’s coming right there, thick and heavy into Dean’s ass. He gasps out, as Dean pushes him down, thrusts through in, and he collapses down onto Dean’s shoulder. The hot slick feeling rushing over his cock is overwhelming, and it all rushes over him in a flash of white and he can’t think of anything else, can’t see anything else, can’t feel anything but Dean all around him, Dean everywhere. He’s pressed into Dean’s body, spent, Dean’s cock trapped between their bodies, as Dean moves their joint hands up and down in a final few strokes, coming again with a short gasp, engulfing his moan into Sam’s shoulder.

They lie there like that for a moment before Sam feels capable of opening his eyes again. His limbs feel like jelly, and he looks around himself, blinking. Dean’s eyes are still closed, eyelashes fluttering softly, and Sam gently tries to extricate his hand from between the two of them, rubbing the mess on the thin blanket. Dean’ll have to live with that, when it comes to sleeping later, but Sam can’t really bring himself to care. He tears his gaze away from Dean, out to the small space beside the bed, but it’s empty.

There’s no one there, no one else in the cell, and Sam blinks again, and sits up, casting his eyes all around the room, brows furrowed. “Sammy?” murmurs Dean, sleepily, “Wha’sa matter?”

“He’s gone,” Sam says, before he can stop himself, and then wants to kick himself. Hard.

Dean’s silent for a beat. “Good,” he says, finally, and lowers his head again, closing his eyes. Dean pats the mattress beside him, and Sam hesitates a moment, before settling down alongside his brother, curled up against him. They’ll have to move in a moment, pull on their clothes again, and then it’ll be time for Sam to go, but right now he has the warm expanse of Dean touching his skin and the knowledge that this, this right here, no matter what the hell else happens to them, that this is real.


End file.
